


Unlikely Eventualities (of learning how to make shit out of grass)

by Temporarily



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bilbo is done with these dwarves, Cultural Misunderstandings, Fluff, Gandalf may or may not have wanted this to happen, Hair Braiding, Humor, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Thorin is a little shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 04:29:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15811377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Temporarily/pseuds/Temporarily
Summary: Looking back on it, Bilbo couldn't really say for sure if it's was Gandalf's intent to interfere. The trouble was the interference was so subtle and so indirect that Bilbo could almost put aside his suspicions and give that old nag the benefit of the doubt.But he couldn't really.The alleged meddling was a simple thing: It had started when Gandalf taught Bilbo the trick to making cordage.





	Unlikely Eventualities (of learning how to make shit out of grass)

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in a disintegrating notebook in a hotel bathroom shortly after I learned how to make cordage. Have at it.

Looking back on it, Bilbo couldn't really say for sure if it was Gandalf's intent to interfere. (Oh who was he kidding, that bumbling busybody was most certainly interfering, Bilbo was sure of it! He merely wasn't certain if they penultimate results of said interfering had been intentional.) But at any rate, things surely wouldn't have turned out just so if he hadn't.

The trouble was the interference, if it was that—it  _most certainly was_ —was so subtle and so indirect that Bilbo could  _almost_  put aside his suspicions and give that old nag the benefit of the doubt.

But he couldn't really.

The alleged meddling was a simple thing: It had started when Gandalf taught Bilbo the trick to making cordage.

~~~

He'd been  _bored,_ that was why. Sometime immediately before the trolls, and after Bilbo had become comfortable enough riding his pony that he didn't need to use all his concentration to avoid gracelessly flailing out of the saddle, all the scenery just kind of... blended together.

He wished he'd packed a book. Or a map. Almost as much as he wanted a decent handkerchief.

Gandalf, being the infuriatingly perceptive old sot he was, noticed Bilbo's dilemma in the angle of the hobbit's eyebrows and the way he fiddled half-heartedly with the reigns, and in the slight downward set of his mouth alluding to a sullen scowl verging on a pout. Whatever tipped him off, the wizard decided to nip this small problem at the bud, so to say.

"Bilbo," he began on a blessedly rain-free morning as they all soaked their trousers sitting on dewy grass to gnaw at unsatisfactory biscuits. "If I asked you to make string out of what's in this clearing, would you be able to do it?" Bilbo observed his surroundings. He observed nothing more than a pack—pack, pride, gaggle?—of smelly dwarves, vegetation, equestrian animals and their burdens, and a wizard.

"Of course not," he said, for, "There isn't any wool here." For some reason the dwarves found this hilarious, and laughed uproariously. Bilbo almost didn't bother to expend the energy it would take to feel indignant anymore, he was growing so used to this. At least Gandalf had the decency not to laugh, though Bilbo got the feeling he wanted to.

"That is true. But you don't need wool or cotton to make string. You can make it out of just about any natural fiber."

"Really?" Bilbo asked in a tone that implied he was less than impressed. "Alright then, if you're so clever, show me how it's done."

"Very well." Gandalf scanned the ground in front of him, and after some deliberation, scrupulously selected two flat blades of grass almost half the length of his forearm.

"Grass?" Bilbo said incredulously. "You can't make string out of grass."

Gandalf merely responded with, "Watch," and the glint in his eye and twist to his smile seemed downright impertinent _._

The hobbit obliged. Gandalf pinched two ends of grass together and began to deftly twist each strand in on each other. To Bilbo's surprise, the makeshift twine actually held. When Gandalf was finished he knotted the ends, and presented the shabby bracelet to Bilbo.

"You are right, of course, in observing that grass is not the optimal weaving material. The inner fibers of flexible vines are better, especially if you soak them in water overnight. It is a simple enough motion once learned, and is a deal more productive than ideally twiddling one's thumbs."

Needless to say, Bilbo learned this skill. It really was very simple. 

Unfortunately... he might have let things get a little too out of hand.

~~~

Bilbo started experimenting with cordage. He varied the strength, thickness, and flexibility of the string. He created a stash of vegetation plucked from all their road stops along the journey. He would soak his material in a stream overnight if there was one, and make do if there wasn't. He learned to splice fiber together with as much ease as tying a simple bow knot. He created cord out of two strands, three strands, four strands, six strands, and once a ridiculously thick twelve-strand piece made out of blackberry that was really more of a small rope.

Once he got past the beginner's phase, his work had to be perfect. If there were any bumps or blemishes in the weave, Bilbo would go back and unpick and rewind the thread, nimble hobbit fingers either correcting the mistake or abandoning the project altogether.

The dwarves said nothing about this new obsession. They could understand the drive to perfect a craft. Even if that craft was... making string.

When at last Bilbo had created a thin string three times longer than his height while sitting on his pony, he reached the conclusion that there wasn't much left to do with cordage.

So he moved on to braiding instead.

~~~

It started off as an absent minded habit. As the company went trotting along all in a line, Bilbo, still in need of something to do with his hands, would play with his pony's mane. Twist and untwist. Wind and unwind. Braid, then unbraid.

But after a few days of this, Bilbo decided to make a little project out of it. He washed and brushed the poor thing's hair as best he could, untangling all the major snags. Then he began the dauntingly long task of weaving the entirety of his mount's mane into tight, tiny braids.

For the duration of this project, it was a stubborn unspoken rule that the company could not move out until Bilbo had brushed his pony's mane. Thorin gritted his teeth and put up with losing fifteen minutes of travel time only because he knew it was better to have a tolerant, amiable hobbit as a travelling companion instead of a grumbling grouchy one.

It was a lesson learned from experience.

All in all, it only took Bilbo four days to finish braiding the beastie's hair. The only thing that stopped him from moving on to the tail was Balin.

"Have some mercy lad!" the old warrior protested. "The poor thing must feel ridiculous enough, prancing about with his mane twisted up like a maid's at harvest festival. Don't take away what little pride it has left. The next thing we know, you'll be putting ribbons in it's hair!"

Bilbo found the very notion absolutely preposterous. Really. Why on earth would he tie off the braids with  _ribbons?_

That's what cordage was for.

~~~

The company had made camp for the night among a craggy cluster of boulders, and Balin was telling them a story of dwarven lore from ages past. The fire crackled in the center of their circle, and Glóin would occasionally throw a leftover scrap of meat or bone from their dinner into the fire, making it pop and sizzle. Thorin leaned against a boulder as he sharpened his axe, and Bilbo sprawled on top of it just behind him. With his belly as full as it ever got while adventuring and his ears laden with fanciful tales, the little hobbit was feeling quite content. Balin was an excellent storyteller, and he was holding everyone's complete attention. So one could argue that Bilbo’s actions were driven by muscle memory instead of rational thought when he started to braid the wiry strands his fingers absent-mindedly brushed against. It was only when those strands pulled away that the hobbit realized he had been playing with Thorin Oakenshield's hair. The dwarven prince looked up at him, brow raised in a way that prompted an explanation Bilbo did not have to give. He managed to stutter put something along the lines of, "...Erm- I- I'm sorry, I wasn't really..." before Thorin lifted his mouth in the smallest of smiles. The dwarf nodded, and muttered something that Bilbo thought might have been, "Go ahead." Except he couldn’t have heard that correctly, because this was Thorin, who was surely much too high and mighty to let a hobbit  _braid his hair_. Besides, Thorin had a number of slim braids already, all of them adorned with bands of metal or beaded jewels, or other such splendid accessories.

But apparently it was, because when Thorin turned back to the fire and Bilbo hesitantly reached forward to brush out his previous work, he raised no objections. So... Why not finish what he had started? The hobbit closed his eyes and allowed Balin's words to drag him down to a place deep beneath the earth while his fingers braided chunks of Thorin's dark mane. He must have been on his tenth or eleventh braid, and the story was nearly finished, when Balin abruptly cut off. Bilbo opened his eyes to see what was the matter, and found ever dwarf but the one immediately in front of him staring at him with a mixture of shock, confusion, and... something close to unease. Especially when their eyes darted down to Thorin and away, as if their gaze might be the catalyst for his temper, which they seemed to expect him to lose any moment now. Bilbo did what seemed to be the rational thing to do in this situation, and stopped braiding. The dwarves continued to look at him. After a lengthy, uncomfortable silence, he requested that Balin continue with the story. Instead, Balin gave the hobbit a very grave look.

"Bilbo. What are you doing?"

"Um..."

"It's all right," Thorin said, and these words alone were enough to whittle down most of the others’ expressions to befuddlement, poor Bilbo being the most befuddled out of them all. "The hobbit does not know the meaning of his actions."

"What actions?" Bilbo asked. "I was just braiding your hair." There was a collective groan from the rest of the circle.

" _Just_  braiding his hair?" Dwalin muttered. "Of all the-" His older brother knocked him over the head before he could finish that sentence.

"Someone should tell him," Ori remarked, taking pity on Bilbo, who clearly hadn’t the slightest idea what all this fuss was about.

"Oh, and who’ll get to be that lucky soul?" Kili snarked. "You?"

"I wasn't volunteering, I was just saying that someone should tell him!" A dozen sets of eyes traded accusing glances around the campfire. Bombur munched on a chunk of bread in stubborn silence, and the rest of them conveniently found little tasks such as whistling or taking a sudden interest in the ground. Thorin sighed. It was the kind of sigh that expressed a deep irritation caused by the stupidity of those around him. Since it looked like no one else was going to explain, the leader of the company decided that he would.

“It is common knowledge that we dwarves can get a bit testy about our beards. That pride extends to our hair as well. We do not usually let anyone but ourselves style it.”

“Oh, well that explains why none of you look to have seen a barber in a couple of decades,” Bilbo taunted. His comment raised neither laughter nor protests from the group. Indeed, Thorin continued as if he hadn't spoken at all.

“It is a gesture of very close familiarity to braid or otherwise alter a dwarf’s hair. And it is not the most… manly thing to do,” was his extraordinarily comprehensive explanation. Balin nodded in agreement.

“Aye. If you're not braiding it yourself, then such tasks are only done by female relatives. Mothers, wives, daughters.”

“Or lovers,” Fili added. Kili kicked him in the shin with a stifled hiss to shut his mouth because by now, Bilbo’s face had become a rather potent shade of rosy pink.

"Blasted dwarves, with your stubborn pride and your foolish traditions and your – you, those ridiculous beards!”  Blasted dwarves indeed. Would they never cease in discovering new ways to tatter Bilbo’s dignity and pride? First as a respectable host, and then as a respectable hobbit, and now as a respectable man. (Strictly speaking the current situation wasn’t necessarily the dwarves’ fault, and they were just as uncomfortable as he was. But Bilbo figured he could blame them anyway.) He turned to Thorin in an accusing manner, and asked, “Why didn't you tell me  _before_  I went and made a fool of myself?!” Thorin smiled, an expression of uncharacteristic mischief on his usually stern face.

“It was amusing to see everyone looking as though a frog had just crawled down their throat.” When he put it that way, it was difficult to put any stock in such a ridiculous scene. The rest of the company wholeheartedly accepted this explanation: It was all a jest. They also took it upon themselves to continue the jest. So for the rest of the evening and most of the following week Bilbo had to suffer jokes at his expense. “Queen Under the Mountain,” “Bilbo Oakenshield,” “Mother Hen” and “Thorin’s Unfortunately Hairy Little Sister” were just a few of the names they called him.

But strangely enough, none of them remarked upon the fact that Thorin kept one of Bilbo’s shabby braids. He tied it off with a piece of woven grass and a plain wooden bead. It looked rather odd hiding in the mess of his hair, with nothing but the occasional neatly done and expensively adorned braid for comparison. But there it remained, and Bilbo Did Not Think about what that might mean, and the rest of the company rarely thought about it at all.


End file.
